There's Nowt Stranger Than Folk

Whenever an American citizen meets a celebrity or big-named star, it invariably becomes the central talking point of their life for months or even years to come. Out comes the camera to preserve that ‘special’ image for posterity; the famous meeting between Mohammed and the mountain. It’s as though some of the stardust has rubbed off on them during their brief brush with fame. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Roman Catholic fan even genuflected in adoration!

This ‘celebrated meeting’ will often be followed by the admiring fan arranging a number of select dinner parties, at which guests are able to view the obligatory sacred snaps between the soup and the main course, now framed and positioned in pride-of-place within prominent eye-line.

By the end of the dinner-party season, a miracle greater than the one performed on the five loaves and five fishes has visited the household, turning the 10-second discourse that took place between the pigeon-holed screen Goddess and her minion into a life-long friendship between two stars from different firmaments, especially when one is on speaking terms with royalty.

And so the magical merry-go-round of the American ‘star-chaser’ inexorably spins. We Yorkshire folk however, are a much different breed. 'We know our place.' Perhaps it’s the thickness of the air we breathe which gives us the urge not to waste our breath or mince our words. Up North we speak as we find, and yet, in our utterances can be found pearls of wisdom and deep philosophical truths wrapped in a haversack of traditional humour.

When a child outside the geographical borders of Yorkshire inquires of their parents the path-way of the newborn infant from the mother’s fat tummy to the cot, the parent instantly accepts that they possess neither words nor means to adequately satisfy the harmless inquiry of the innocent child. However, if a child asks a Yorkshire man ‘How do babies get out?’, the answer they will invariably get will be poignant and to the point; "The same way as they got in!”

Even our children can be great levellers to one’s bulging vanity.

After I had received an MBE from the Queen, a school friend of my young son asked him why the Queen had honoured me. My son William instantly replied, “Oh, he wrote some story about a dragon and a fox, so they gave him an old medal!”

Which leads me nicely to my investiture ceremony at Buckingham Palace during 1995. As I approached the Queen to receive my gong, I was gobsmacked by Her Majesty’s lack of height, so much so that when she politely asked, "What kind of books do you write Mr Forde?” the only reply I could muster was, “Good ones, Maam, good ones!”

As the Queen gave me a straight-faced glance with a look that reflected confusion instead of amusement, I could sense one of the Beefeaters behind her raise his axe in anticipation of her next command as he moved forward three paces. That royal ‘We are not amused’ look suddenly changed. The royal face softened, the majestic cheeks widened and the Queen laughed: not smiled as protocol decrees, but palpably laughed! It may have been the quiet laugh of a reserved lady and not a ‘Barnsley belly buster’, but a royal laugh it was nevertheless; and I’ve got it on video and photographs to prove it.

Three years earlier I’d witnessed a similar laugh while being given a conducted tour around ‘Number 10’ by Prime Minister John Major and his wife, Norma. The then PM, whom I found to be one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, was the perfect host and he went out of his way to make me and my wife feel at home. I had taken my wife to see 'Prime Minister's Question Time' in the House of Commons beforehand and we then travelled to 'Number 10' to keep our appointment at the arranged hour of day.

Our visit lasted one and a half hours (one hour with the PM and his wife and the final half hour with Norma). I couldn't believe how long the couple were prepared to spend with us that day. While showing us the cabinet room, the PM revealed his capacity to read my mind when he said, “Sit down here, Bill. Try out the seat of power if you want!” He then pulled out the chair which he sits in whilst presiding over the cabinet. I sat down in the chair and thought that he may not be occupying it much longer as his cabinet was in a rebellious mood. As I sat down as proud as a Cheshire cat who’d just tasted the cream, the PM wryly said,” And on your way out, Bill, why not go for 'the double’ and sit yourself down at Walpole’s desk?” This I did, but I must confess that my sense of mischievousness got the better of me, and in a moment of sheer lunacy I took the gum out of my mouth that I’d been surreptitiously chewing and stuck it under Walpole’s desk! I wonder if it’s still there. If anyone finds themselves at ‘Number 10’ in the future and gets the opportunity to look under Walpole’s desk and let me know, I’d be forever grateful. My subsequent search on the internet to find an image of Walpole's desk led me to understand that it is recorded as part of the inventory in Sir John Soan's Museum. I therefore presume that Robert Walpole had more than the one desk and that the one in 'Number 10' is the very same one that every PM has worked from since the days of Robert Walpole.

The next part of the tour took us up the winding staircase and as we climbed the stairs we viewed the portrait gallery, comprised of every Prime Minister from Robert Walpole to Margaret Thatcher, which stretched in staggered formation, lining the wall from bottom to top of the steps. Norma proudly named each Prime Minister as we walked up the staircase of honour. She seemed to take a particular pleasure in being able to immediately name any photograph of past PMs and she clearly took her role as the Prime Minister's wife very seriously indeed.

She paused at the top of the stairs where we looked at the last occupant to fill the ‘very last place’ on the wall; Margaret Thatcher. Maggie had positioned her portrait at the very end of the staircase, leaving no more room for the next PM to leave 'Number 10' to be placed there. It was as though she could never have envisaged ‘not being the last PM we would ever have’. I could well imagine that when Maggie had come to position her portrait alongside the others on the staircase and had seen space for another two PMs to follow her, she rearranged the other portraits preceding hers so that she would naturally finish up at the top of the stair case!

It was at that precise moment that Norma showed her political claws. Determined to reassert her husband’s natural position in the historical line-up, Norma smilingly said, “She isn't going to push my John around the corner if I've anything to do with it. I’ll make sure she’s put back in her place before we leave this office!”

We took tea and biscuits in their flat above ‘Number 10’. It was a rather cold February day and the PM asked, “Are you and Fiona warm enough, Bill?” My immediate thoughts were for the mining community of Yorkshire, which Margaret Thatcher had effectively decimated: a policy that her successor, John Major had continued when he took up Office. After a few moments I decided that it would be too hypocritical to allow the innocent inquiry to pass without letting my true feelings be known. Besides, my dear father, who had once been a miner would have turned in his grave had I not said anything. To the discomfort of my wife, I looked the PM head-on and replied, “I’m fine thank you, Prime Minister, but the poor miners of Yorkshire will most certainly feel the cold this winter since you’ve closed down all the mines and thrown them on the scrap heap!”

To be fair to John Major, he smiled wryly and took the criticism on the chin. However, Norma had a longer memory, as time would tell. At the commencement of my communication with Norma Major all her letters to me would start with ‘Dear Bill’. The very next time Norma had occasion to write to me, she began with the more formal address, “Dear Mr. Forde”, essentially confirming that I was no longer on her Christmas-card list.

This brief hiccup aside, however, the Majors were a fascinating couple. John Major, in my view, never lost sight of his more humble origins. He could never be regarded as being ‘stuffy’ or ‘pretentious’, and although I disagreed with his politics, I loved the gentle nature of the man. At the beginning of his premiership, both he and his wife showed a willingness to break with the established protocol of the PM’s ‘Office’.

On the 14th October, 1992, in response to my request, they sent an open letter, which had been signed by ‘Prime Minister John Major and Norma Major’ to the children of Kirklees, congratulating them on their efforts in ‘The Our World’ project, which I had organized in conjunction with The Kirklees Environment Department, Anita Roddick and Robert Swan, Arctic explorer and the first person to walk to both the North and South Pole.

Having made a request that the letter of congratulations to be sent to the children of Kirklees be written on ‘Number 10 headed paper’, I also requested that it be ‘jointly signed’ by the Prime Minister and his wife, Norma.

I received a phone call from ‘Number 10’ to indicate that protocol decreed that no serving Prime Minister and his partner/spouse could jointly sign any official document under any circumstances whatsoever on 'Number 10' headed notepaper.

When I communicated the response of the ‘Number 10’ officials to Norma, the Prime Minister’s wife showed her mettle again and, being determined not to be directed or thwarted by political minions of 'Number 10,' Norma said quietly, “Leave it with me, Mr Forde.” A short while later, the children of Kirklees got their jointly-signed letter.

‘Was I back in favour?’ I asked myself. However the customary Christmas card from ‘Number 10’ did not come that year. Perhaps, it was indeed duly posted, but got lost in the Christmas mail?

However, John seemed more forgiving than Norma. He obviously wasn't a man for holding grudges well past their 'sell-buy date'. In later years, after he'd stopped being Prime Minister, he was able to get back to things he liked doing much better, such as watching live cricket and making lots of money for giving speeches and saying the things that nobody listened much to when he was in charge of the country. I remember his infinite generosity whenever I requested an autographed book of his to auction for charity. On one occasion, because he was out of the country at the time of receiving my request, he posted it at cost of over £30, which was almost twice the book's face value, just to make sure that I received it in time for the arranged auction.

The event by Kirklees’ children was started off when me and the late Anita Roddick marched 2,000 children through the main street of Huddersfield Town from the railway station to the Town Hall, where the gathered children read their stories and sang their hearts out to the specially composed ‘Our World’ song led by operatic singer, Kevin Carville.

This was the first and no doubt, the only time, when I managed to stop the traffic through Huddersfield for 45 minutes! It was also the very first time that I'd written, jointly composed and arranged the recorded production of a song.

If you would like to hear this song simply access by clicking here. The song was specifically recorded initially for the 'Our World' book project and was later used in 'Douglas the Dragon Musical Play.'In 1993, after trying for two years to secure the public reading services of Jeffrey Archer, he visited a school in Slaithwaite, Huddersfield to read from my book, ‘Midnight Fighter’. The event proved to be highly successful and memorable. For a month prior to Jeffrey’s reading, he had received a rubbishing in the media about the perceived non-literary merits of his writings, which nevertheless had always made the ‘Best Seller’ lists.

The event was covered by the local and regional press, two radio stations and two regional TV channels. After the reading, as one TV channel presenter interviewed Jeffrey, the other television channel presenter in attendance was interviewing me. Having been interviewed on many occasions by the media, I was aware that the person interviewing might try to get me to comment on ‘the merit’ of Jeffrey’s books, as this topic had been the current ‘hot potato’ of the national press during the previous week. Being aware that this might happen, fortunately I was well prepared when the inevitable question was asked.

Crunch time came towards the end of the interview as the television reporter asked, “And would you tell the viewer what you think about the literary merit of Jeffrey Archer’s books, Bill?” As any streetwise Northerner who is backed into a corner with no apparent escape route knows, telling it as it occurs is always the best way of 'buying time' in order to free oneself up for the next question.

I took a deep breath, smiled and looked straight into the television reporter’s eyes and remarked, “To tell the truth, I must confess that I’ve never read one of Mr Archer’s books, yet.” Then after a brief pause I added smilingly, “but I know he’s read one of mine. Didn’t he do a splendid job?” The reporter smiled back and knew she had been truly ‘snookered’ in true Slaithwaite style and had been balled a Yorkshire ‘goolie’.

In subsequent years Jeffrey would become the first Conservative Mayoral candidate for the City of London and looked odds on to win. He was also ennobled and became a Lord. Then it emerged that he’d been ‘telling one story too many’ to the High Court in a libel claim for damages. Having played fast and loose with the truth, and after receiving a conviction for perjury, he was given a short prison sentence.

His ‘fall from grace’ was meteoric. There were some attempts to take away his title and many of his previous friends abandoned him. I can however, merely report as I find. I have always found Jeffrey Archer to be kind, generous, sensitive and extremely generous in his charitable giving. I wish the man well and I am pleased to see that his books still have a mass following and sell well enough to sustain the lifestyle to which he’s become accustomed.

One of the larger than life characters I ever had the good fortune to meet was the late Sir Norman Wisdom, who not only made a special trip over to Mirfield Library from the Isle of Mann to publicly read from my book ‘Action Annie’, but who remained in touch with me thereafter until he entered his nursing home. I am sure that the people of Mirfield will never forget the day I brought the little man with the great big heart into their midst. He was the most genial, laughable person one could ever hope to come across. He was also a prefect gentleman to every lady he spoke to as he gazed at them with those, ' It's only little me' eyes.

I had the best part of eight hours that day in Norman’s company (he preferred to introduce himself as ‘Wizzy’), and as for his age, he was the fittest and most agile of men I have ever met. Having always been on the wrong side of 14 stone for most of my adult years, I was naturally curious to learn how Norman remained constantly slim. While having elevenses in the Corn Mill earlier that day, he said that he needed to be vigilant in his weekly fast in order to maintain his desired weight.

His secret, as he explained was threefold (I paraphrase): “It helps if you are brought up in abject poverty and exist on nothing more than potato soup and daily prayer. A good thrashing by your parents on a regular daily basis also helps to keep your weight down. Last but not least, watch the biscuits!”

Despite the constant stream of humour that he gave out, from what he did tell me that day, he had undoubtedly experienced a childhood that had been largely devoid of love and demonstrable affection.He said that he was frequently given a good hiding by his parents.

From what he said,Norman’s upbringing had been one of abject poverty and had been filled with physical and mental cruelty. It is a paradox that a man whose singing, acting and mere presence was to bring so much love and happiness to the world for over 70 years, never once felt loved himself as a child by his parents or had love expressed to him. And yet he didn’t come across as feeling bitter or holding any grudges. I was left with some insight of the sheer sadness that must have often masked his life. As he made his living acting the fool and making the world laugh, I wonder how often he was inwardly giving ironic expression to his tears? It reminded me of the song by Robin Gibb of the Bee Gees,'I started a joke'.

Norman Wisdom, or 'Sir Norman'as he deservedly became known as before his death, was always a true gentleman. Throughout his long career he managed to maintain the combined image of simplicity, laughter and happiness. I have since reflected since his death and have genuinely come to believe that it was he who had the 'last laugh' and that it was we, his adoring audience, that were left 'lookingthe fool!

As for the biscuits, eating them was apparently one of Norman’s favourite treats. He said he would gorge on them once upon a time, but these days he refused to be ‘addicted’ to them. He said that every Thursday was his ‘carbohydrates free day’. So whenever I find my oversized hand creep into the biscuit jar these days, I think of Norman. If you are listening up there, Wizzy, you’ll be pleased to know that my New Year’s resolution for 2012 was to make every Thursday henceforth a ‘carbohydrate free day'. Unfortunately, Wizzy, I have not yet been able to keep my resolve, but I promise, I'll truly try again from tomorrow.....or the day after.

'Action Annie' ( Back and front book cover)

Because all of my books were limited-edition publications, it isn't strange today to see hard copies of them sold on www.amazon.co.uk and www.amazon.com for many times their original face value. However, the book that Norman read for the public of Mirfield on the day of his visit, 'The Action Annie Omnibus', was offered for sale on Amazon.com for the year 2011-1012 at over £1,900 in the UK and over $2,000 internationally! I'm not sure why this book commanded such a high price; whether it was because Norman Wisdom publicly read from it or whether it was because it was a limited-edition publication of only 500 copies that the late Dame Catherine Cookson and her husband Tom paid to have published because they loved the character? Whatever the reason, if you can get hold of an odd copy that may be floating around in unsuspecting hands, next year's holiday could be paid for in advance!

Isn’t it strange, the influence that some special folk can continue to have on one simply by brushing past them. 'There’s nowt as strange as folk', as we say up North!